If you had a jar with a lidyou would try to save it, give it to the girl with the parted lips and the eyes that crinkle.

You’re not sure what to makeof half -built cities except that when they haunt you in your dreams the streets overflow with possibility and the rooftop ridgelines are hunched, bent at the hip, against the skyline.

You’re a cake still soft in the middle:both raw and burnt and never giving up.